Okay, tried, couldn't
by shywr1ter
Summary: In the months following Ziva's rescue from Somalia, Team Gibbs still isn't back to where it was before Rivkin's death and the loss of Ziva.  Each man works through the aftermath until it's clear something has to be done. Budding TIVA. For NFA's SeSa.
1. The Team

**Disclaimer**: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N**: This five part fic is completed – will post a chapter every couple days.

**More A/N**: Post-Somalia stories have been done to death, but none I've seen has quite hit all the things I've wondered about since Ziva's rescue. I hope this one has some elements not done before. This fic was written for screamingmonkeys as a part of the NFA Secret Santa exchange; it's a bit different for me, as while I'm fine with happy endings and even some fluff (both requested) she also wanted "lots of angst" which, if I've done in the past, wasn't intentional! **And sorry about the poorly punctuated title on the NCIS index - FFN just wouldn't let me use the punctuation I needed to put up the title properly!**

_So thanks for reading! All comments, of any sort, are appreciated – always love to hear what you think..._

"_**OKAY, TRIED - COULDN'T. LISTEN..."**_

**September, 2009**

The news of the team's successful mission in Somalia and the safety of its personnel had been transmitted by the carrier group's communication officer to the Director of NCIS, who had been standing by for long, tension filled minutes in MTAC. It had begun with the very brief, coded message from the insertion team to the waiting carrier. The rest of the stunning information came in small portions thereafter, surprising and even energizing the usually unflappable Leon Vance.

First, the count: _four_ civilian personnel, not three, were en route to the ship, making this an extraction as well as the "eyes on the ground" mission that they'd hoped – and planned – to become so much more. When Director Vance himself barked a request for clarification, the reply was the same, _four_ civilians. Then, the damage: three out of the four being evaluated by the pair of medics tasked with the incursion force; none appeared to be seriously wounded. But the most unexpected and positive news came about twenty minutes after the first, in the form of a direct call from the team leader himself and the news Vance had been unwilling to consider until he had confirmation. Team Gibbs had been more successful than anyone had hoped: not only had its ostensible fact-finding mission located, and _eliminated_, the terrorist cell's leader, Saleem Ulman, but DiNozzo's unstated, ill-concealed personal mission – avenging the loss of their teammate – had suddenly been turned on its ear as Ziva was not merely avenged, but _rescued_.

And that, for many more reasons than the mere saving of a life of one of their own, was huge.

So when their cargo transport landed back on American soil, the word went from Vance to his personnel almost as quickly as it had come to him. And the audacity and skill of their mission, now known by every employee at the Navy Yard, had nearly everyone in the building waiting for them to appear, to celebrate their victory and to welcome their lost warrior home.

The elevator dinged ... the door opened ... and the exhausted, filthy, event-rattled team slowly moved out of the elevator into the long-familiar squadroom that each, at least one time or another, had considered home. It was the Director who broke the waiting silence, offering his public approval and pride by leading off the applause, adding his silent nod and genuine smile to Gibbs. All eyes turned quickly to the Mossad officer thought dead, as Abby's emotional, relieved hug welcomed Ziva for every one of those looking on. In the emotions of the moment, it was no surprise that no one really noticed the others on the team.

No one noted the weary, grim expression of the team's leader who, understanding exactly all that they had accomplished, also had understood not only the implications of Ziva's rescue and return to _them,_ rather than to Mossad, but the inescapable conclusions about what must have happened to her during her months of captivity. And no one – other than Gibbs, and, with a quick glance of his own, McGee – noted the quiet withdrawal and haunted, intense expression on the face of their senior field agent as he slipped from the knot of people meeting them near the elevator to go retreat behind his desk and watch Ziva intently, the look in stark contrast to his usual mask of juvenile indifference and mischief.

As the applause swelled, then subsided, the analysts and agents and assistants stepped away from the emotional scene and turned back to their desks and their own work. Abby's hold on Ziva extended well past the last clap, hugging her close as Ducky murmured his soft encouragement, and together the three slowly turned back toward the elevator, doubtless to allow the team's _de facto _medic to assure himself that at least for the moment, Ziva faced no immediate physical risks due to her maltreatment.

Gibbs allowed himself to give Ziva up to the pair, confident that they would ensure her a safe place to stay for the time being, until they all got their balance back. He turned to the two men left waiting in the bullpen. Tony remained at his desk, unmoving, in exactly the same position he'd taken since his arrival. McGee, who had greeted Ducky and stood close as the scientists had taken Ziva under their wings, now moved toward his desk to drop his bag there, trying not to be too obvious as he glanced again in concern to his partner.

"Go home, McGee." Gibbs was suddenly at the younger man's elbow. With a tired, supportive squeeze of his shoulder, his boss added, "that was a hell of a job you two did out there. Go home, get a shower and some food ... I'll see you tomorrow. You too, Tony," Gibbs turned to the senior field agent, whose gaze remained unbroken and focused on images that Gibbs feared would eat him alive. "You two have earned more than just a few hours, but at least for now I can give you that much."

Gibbs' words, and his weary, concerned tone, made McGee look back at his boss, and the look he saw as Gibbs considered DiNozzo led him to look back at his partner, not bothering to hide his own thoughts now. Tony had made a few efforts to joke or to prod as the drugs worked their way out of his system, but they were all thinly disguised efforts at drawing out Ziva, pulling her back to them and out of the hell in which she'd been held for four months. Now that she was out of his sight, he fell back into his own black brooding, clearly focused on her and what must have happened after they'd left her behind.

It took a couple moments for Gibbs' voice – and the piercing gazes of two sets of eyes on him – to work through the layers of worry and rage and regret and a host of undefinable emotions pulling for his attention, but finally, Tony drew a breath and, without any outward sign of change in him, said quietly, "the Director will want a report as soon as possible, Boss. When I get that done and on your desk, I'll head out."

"The Director got enough of a preliminary report with us making it back here intact to hold him until tomorrow. Go home," Gibbs repeated. As he looked at the unmoving agent, he sighed softly and looked back at the younger agent. "Go on, McGee. I'll see you tomorrow at 0800."

Wavering only a moment, Tim finally nodded and murmured, "right. G'night Boss." As he started walking, he arced around to the edge of DiNozzo's desk, tapping the surface lightly, a kind of substitute pat on the back of the man whose obsession had brought them all – _all_ of them – to this moment. "'night, Tony," he added.

DiNozzo nodded, vaguely, aware of Tim's efforts and of Gibbs' lingering presence, but still too wrapped up in events to react as he might under other circumstances. He knew that Gibbs would persist until he did _something_, and a part of him appreciated it, but at the moment it didn't really matter. Several moments passed, the only sounds around them the quiet bustle of a normal day's work by the other employees just outside their bullpen...

"Hey."

The voice was low, the sound rare but not new – Gibbs was concerned about him. Tony's unbroken stare finally wavered as he blinked suddenly, tiredly, and slumped a little.

"She's with Ducky, and Abby won't let her alone for a minute. She's in good hands, Tony. It would be a good time to go home and get a shower and something to eat."

The green eyes lifted to Gibbs, finally, and revealed the pain he felt, both old and new, both his own and what he now felt for Ziva, all in a hazy muddle as events and the outcome started sinking in for him, in waves. "I will," he stalled.

Gibbs frowned. "Tony – are you sure you don't need to see Ducky, let him take some blood for Abby? God knows what was in that crap Saleem was shooting into you..."

The senior field agent shook his head. "I'm fine, Gibbs, it's just..."

"You're not even _close_ to fine, DiNozzo," Gibbs interrupted, "but I'm willing to believe that you either finally ran out of adrenaline, or ..." Unlike his usual directness, Gibbs gave himself a moment to choose his words with some care. "...everything that's happened just all piled up at once." Even though the circumstances were far from what he would want for his second, Gibbs was mildly heartened that Tony looked back up to meet his eyes at his words. "You tell me honestly that I don't have to worry about any chemicals still shooting around in your body and I'll take your word for it."

At that, Tony drew a deep breath, sighed, and slumped a bit more as his taut, tight muscles finally released a little more of the tension he'd carried for weeks now. "Thanks, Boss," he murmured. He was quiet for another few moments before drawing another breath. "I'm good."

_To be continued._


	2. Gibbs

Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N**: You guys have been wonderful – many thanks for all the alerts, the reviews, the favorites and the PM s for this story. You made me want to hurry the updating! No TIVA yet, but Tony will appear after this chapter, and I promise Ziva will appear before things are through. We just need to see how the others on the team are seeing things first...

Again – sincere thanks for reading and for letting me know what you think. All comments appreciated...

"_**OKAY, TRIED - COULDN'T. LISTEN..."**_

**September, 2009**

Gibbs felt achingly tired as he let himself in the back door of his house, dropping his rucksack in the mudroom leading into the kitchen and pulling off his boots to stand beside them. Those simple actions would mean he'd have to give the floor a good sweeping to clean up the Somalian sand that had managed to make the entire trip with him, but at the moment he didn't care. He was bone tired, and not only from the long hours of travel and mission and return, but also from what he saw ahead.

_Rule 12_, he kept thinking. It had been borne of very different circumstances, and, he stubbornly argued with himself, it was still a good rule. A wise rule. For most people. For almost all co-workers.

But DiNozzo and David weren't just any co-workers; they were _his_, and they were on his team because they were extraordinarily sharp and good at what they did. And he could have bet money, even years ago, that they would end up together, sooner or later; whether just partners in bed or long committed spouses, who could tell, but a connection was there from the start that one way or the other would have had its due – except for Rule number 12, and if it was anything he was good at doing, it was manipulating and bending his team to his way of doing things, especially his rules, no matter what.

And look where it had gotten them.

He crossed the kitchen, dim in the late afternoon light, and pulled a beer from the refrigerator, craving something strong and wet and hoping the beer would help him avoid the lure of the half bottle of bourbon waiting for him downstairs. He went to the basement door, pulled it open and flicked the switch just inside, once again bouncing the light around the uncharacteristically empty room.

He jogged tiredly down the stairs, longing once more for a huge wooden form like the ones that usually filled this space, the long, curved planks of a boat's hull and the rhythmic, repetitive passes of sandpaper the best thing to sooth his thoughts when things were unsettled. It didn't pay to let his team see the times he replayed some of his decisions, wondering if they'd been for the best; it didn't fit the image they had of him and Gibbs had learned early and well in the Corps that the image his team had of him, like the image his men had of their gunnery sergeant, was vital to developing the level of leadership and command needed in dangerous situations. He held that belief as an inviolate truth and every day tried his damnedest to live up to the image. And a part of that image was 'face it, own it, deal with it.' Second or even third thoughts were important if things went haywire, but not where the team could see. They needed him to be strong.

Gibbs crossed the expanse of empty basement floor toward the project he'd just started, a pair of matched wooden rockers for his father's front porch – or maybe he'd put them in front of his store; he was there more hours than home and it was the sort of thing Jack would do, encouraging customers to stick around and share a story or two. As he did nearly every time he came downstairs now he let his hand run along the beautiful pieces of ash he'd found, some still in the rough-hewn planks in which he'd bought them, and several now cut down to size, two in the braces he used to bend the wooden pieces into the precise curve needed for the back spindles. The four long rockers, the largest pieces he had in this project, drew him more insistently than usual, and Gibbs knew he was searching for answers that might never exist for his battered teammates.

_Rule 12..._

From the moment Ziva told him she'd been sent to be on his team, a few years ago now, a little part of his gut told him that there would be something – _something_ – between his liaison and his senior field agent. His head told him all the ways he was wrong, but there was something in the pairing that set off his early warning system. Until the fiasco with Jeanne Benoit, he thought maybe they had just not clicked – they were excellent partners, there for each other and the rest of the team, so maybe it wasn't Rule 12 at all but just them, and the fact they weren't very similar at all in background or tastes or temperament.

But then he'd seen a side of Ziva that had surprised him when she had first convinced herself that Tony was ill, stewing and fretting and obsessing that he'd developed a complication from the plague, or worse. After that, another side of her appeared, and then another, an alternating approving-jealous-skeptical sort of emotional roller coaster, albeit subdued, when she learned he was in a committed relationship with the young doctor. And when _that_ imploded ... well, they'd gone back to being just teammates. Partners. And being that they were young and healthy and single, went on with their separate lives, no connection outside work as far as he could tell.

_Would they have done more, if there was no Rule 12?_

Gibbs paused for a moment, staring at the rich grain under his hands, before pushing the sandpaper back, with long strokes, along one of the thick rocker beams.

Tony and Ziva may have flirted and teased each other – rumor was that when Tony was team leader they had a weekly "movie night," although who knows what else was on the schedule – but he'd never had the sense that they were just waiting to get through the day so they could go spend some quality time together. He'd seen _that_ before; hell, he'd _lived_ it. More than once. But not when on a team as busy as the MCRT had been over the past few months.

_We'd been busy enough, before everything went to hell, that they probably needed to just get home and get some sleep for the next day. Besides, with those two, no way would they show the usual signs – a pair like that would be as unconventional in finding time together as they are with the team..._

But Rule 12 ... _his_ damned Rule 12 ... was out there and he was well aware of how much influence his rules and requirements affected them, especially DiNozzo. If he'd ever doubted it he had all the reminder he needed when he tried to tell Tony to let things go, invoking Rule 11 to do so. The agent immediately responded defensively, insisting he would never date a co-worker. It was the first time in a long time that DiNozzo had screwed up which rule was which.

_If Rule 12 never been mentioned_, Gibbs wondered, _would the two of them have gotten involved outside of the office? And if they had – would that have meant no Jeanne Benoit? No Rivkin? No battle in Ziva's apartment or trip to Israel or confrontation by Ziva for a place on the team, and no leaving her behind with Mossad... _

_No suicide trip to Somalia, for either of his people._

_No false report of Ziva's death. No months of imprisonment and torture and God knows what else for the daughter of Eli David..._

The cascade of "what ifs" caused Gibbs to slow his sanding and take a deep breath, blowing out the discomfort it caused him. He didn't often speculate on what might have been; it didn't change reality – but if his damned rule had led, one thing to the next, to the battered, benumbed Mossad officer he'd just left in Ducky's care or the shattered spirit of his senior field agent over the past months, then he owed it to them to make it right – if he only had a clue what, in this situation, "right" was.

For Ziva – he had no idea what horrors she must have faced in her captivity – or the extent of the damage done to her. For all her Mossad training and experience there were some things for which no one could adequately prepare, and many not easily overcome, and he had no idea yet how – or who – she would be after such an ordeal.

And DiNozzo. He was even more of a puzzle in this. His first wounds came early, when he saw Ziva slipping away from him, first to Rivkin, then after Rivkin's death, to her accusations and anger for Rivkin's death. Ziva's spiraling rage at DiNozzo, fueled by the evidence that both her father and Rivkin had simply used her, _betrayed_ her, cut Tony deeply as she seemed to blame _him_ for it all, rather than the men who were actually at fault. More than once, Gibbs wondered if when the dust settled she would see that of all the men in her life, Tony was far more deserving of her appreciation and loyalty than her father or Rivkin ever were, and would see just what he had risked just to protect her. But before any of that had been settled, the team was back from Israel without her. And no matter how well Dinozzo pulled out his usual mask of nonchalance, this one had rattled him – and he hadn't been the same without her here.

But because Tony was Tony, he coped, not missing a beat, until there was first the news of Mossad activity and her possible capture, which wound him up to try and find her. When he'd had to tell the team she had "died," Gibbs saw a DiNozzo he'd never before seen in the nearly ten years they'd worked together. While Tony hadn't been himself since their return from Israel, after hearing of the Damocles' destruction he first was numb and distant – then, suddenly, manic and obsessed. His plan to avenge Ziva's death had been calculated and ostensibly for the greater good, saving further acts of terrorism and who could know how many lives. And as he pitched it to Vance, Gibbs wondered how in the hell the Director couldn't see that Tony was ready give up his own life, just to be sure that Saleem lost his.

Once given the green light, DiNozzo didn't think once about the future – he was bent only on revenge. There had been times, more than a few, that Gibbs actually thought about pulling the plug on the mission, given the toll it was taking on his agent. He'd finally convinced himself that Tony needed it to grieve, to get out all that he had stored up in anger and regret and loss – but even as they put boots on the ground, he worried that Tony intended it to be a suicide mission, too. And as much as Gibbs hated putting both agents in such close range of harm, he relied on the knowledge that by sending McGee in, too, DiNozzo would move heaven and hell to bring McGee back in one piece. He just couldn't be sure he'd see Tony again if he'd sent him in alone.

_And now?_

Gibbs sighed, pausing for a moment in his sanding. He had three agents who would eventually recover from the physical injuries their captivity had caused – even Ziva. Two agents whose chronic emotional scars had been newly torn open were left changed. _Damaged_. For how long? Would they ever really recover? Were these the wounds that would scar them permanently?

_Would it make a damn bit of difference if he somehow found a way to remove Rule 12 from their list of rules? Or would his doing so make things even worse?_

He shook his head in his weariness, realizing he was getting ahead of himself. Ziva's position was in limbo, at best; apart from not knowing what _she_ wanted to do at this point, the best he'd been able to do with Vance was to "table" her position at NCIS, in his hope that she would return. They didn't know if Mossad would ever reassign her as its liaison, but Vance, knowing Eli better than anyone there did, wasn't hopeful. At NCIS, she was one of them – one of _his –_ and there would somehow always be a place for her with them, he'd make sure of it. And beyond that – Gibbs knew that both Ziva and Tony had some serious healing to do, both in themselves and all their baggage, and with each other. Given his own track record he figured he was about the last one to offer any help or advice about that, other than they needed to heal, and that they needed to do all they could to do so. Whatever he could do to help them with that, too, he had their six.

He just didn't know how, quite yet. And all that, he supposed, needed to be sorted out before Rule 12 was an issue...

_... to be continued._


	3. McGee & DiNozzo

Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N**: Once again, many thanks to to all of you reading, with extra thanks to those who dropped a line to let me know what you think. Major special credit to those who found Chapter 2 and sent a review, even though FFN failed to move the story back to the front of the line when it was posted!

All comments welcome and appreciated!

"_**OKAY, TRIED - COULDN'T. LISTEN..."**_

**November, 2009**

For the first evening in nearly a month, and after a particularly grueling week, Tim was home before 1800 hours, reports done, the homicide that had them running in several directions right through the weekend finally a closed file. Dropping his bag at the door, he went in to the kitchen to pull a frozen dinner from the freezer and a diet root beer from the fridge. At the moment he just wanted simple, uncomplicated and quick. He had been relieved that no one suggested getting dinner or a beer to celebrate wrapping up the case – in fact, he suspected that they all needed time alone to unwind as much as he did.

_And when did that happen?_ his inner voice niggled. _When did they all turn into Gibbs, escaping to the solace of their empty apartments?_

They hadn't really needed to do that before, hadn't even really _wanted_ to do that before, and the fact that they did now bothered him. Even when it was just the three of them – or, had been Tony, Gibbs and him, with a succession of agents at Ziva's desk – he and Tony had gone out for a sandwich or a beer more often than they ever had before. But ever since Ziva had been back...

He sighed as he plopped down at his computer and waited for his dinner to heat. Another two e-mails from his agent popped up; she insisted that Thom E. Gemcity would be wholly forgotten if he didn't come up with something soon that she could at least tease as a new novel in the works. Despite the weariness he felt, it occurred to him that getting his head into some writing might be just the thing to take his mind off what was really bothering him.

He snorted, without humor. _And what exactly would __**that**__ be, Tim? _he prodded himself._  
_

He knew, and had known all along, what it was that they all simply refused to face and was throwing off the whole team: something was still off with Ziva. Something was still really wrong, and the whole team was edgy and off-balance as they just kept on going, hoping things would right themselves and trying to pretend nothing had happened, because they didn't know what else to do. Was it because they were a bunch of guys, uncomfortable and ill-equipped to address something so violative of a woman, something probably difficult to understand for another woman if she hadn't gone through it herself, and incomprehensible for a man to really get at all? His own baby sister had made him aware of that; in his own naivete – or maybe just wishful thinking – he had described only the bare bones of Ziva's captivity to Sarah before her eyes went wide and she assumed that Ziva must have been repeatedly and brutally raped by Saleem's nest of thugs, asking how Ziva was coping and if she'd been physically injured by it all 'too,' and how she was able to get past it all to function.

Tim remembered again his sister's increasing disbelief with his responses – no, he didn't know for certain she'd been raped; no, he didn't know if she had been hurt by it or if she had any counseling for it. Sarah refused to believe it was possible that she escaped without being sexually assaulted, and that was even before he admitted she'd been otherwise tortured. In retrospect, he felt some shame that all of them, as professionals, were far behind his own starry-eyed sister's insight in this, but at the time, all he could think was, 'it's _Ziva_. She was _trained_ for this. She's back and says she's fine, and she would be the one who'd know...'

Only Tony had voiced anything, and only once, and only to him, maybe four weeks earlier: it had been making Tony crazy that Ziva tried so hard to pretend nothing had happened and that Gibbs seemed fine with them all doing so. Thinking about it now, Tim knew his own response had been worthless to Tony, and had cut off any further discussion from the senior agent about it; he'd told Tony maybe they ought to let Ziva take the lead with it and _let_ her act as if it was all fine when it wasn't. As long as she _was_ fine in the field, they should let her set the course. They could deal with a little discomfort during down time.

He remembered Tony's face with that: first a little deflated, then the mask was back with a simple nod, then a small smile, a clap on his shoulder and a neutral, "okay" as he walked away and never brought it up again. The sound of that "okay" played again in Tim's head for long moments, until broken by the beeping of his microwave.

_It hadn't all been so bad_, Tim tried to tell himself as he got up to go into the kitchen. _Of course having been a prisoner for so many months would have an effect, and it wouldn't be something that even Ziva could just shake overnight. They just had to give her time. _It wasn't like she wasn't holding her own; she _was_ fine on the assignments they'd had. And they'd had some good times too, like just last week for Thanksgiving at Ducky's. He pulled the plastic cover off his dinner and chuckled a little, remembering that they'd all managed to get some mileage out of Gibbs' contribution to the dinner, the oddest assortment of snack crackers and pretzels and just about anything available on a convenience store rack that would pass as a grain product.

He sighed. So maybe he _did _sound a little defensive, even in his own head. At least she knew they were all here for her, he was sure of that. He wondered that maybe he ought to offer to – what, make her dinner? She could out-cook him by a mile. Her computer and other electronics had been set up to her satisfaction weeks ago. Maybe it _was_ time to suggest a drink after work, or a sandwich, just something to remind her that he cared...

With the thought that he'd suggest a drink tomorrow after work, Tim forced the issue from his mind as he came back to the computer with his dinner. Deciding that losing himself in some writing would relax him and get Crawshaw off his back, he pulled out a notebook of his free writing and one-off scenes, thinking of a couple that might be developed into a new book. Several of them were over a year old, and he didn't remember what all he had written. Looking at them now might jump-start the old writing juices...

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

An hour later his dinner was long cold, untouched, and Tim was on his couch, staring at images flickering across the muted TV screen without really noting what was on, his thoughts refusing to let him off the hook any longer.

_Ziva hasn't been herself since she's been back, and whatever she's feeling she holds it in for as long as she can, then lets it out by lashing out at Tony – and I've just joined in as if it was the usual old stuff, nothing different,_ he admitted to himself. _Tony's just taking it all, and Gibbs has done nothing about it. Maybe it helps Ziva to get it out of her system, but it's always only temporary – maybe she needs to see someone for some help for what this has done to her. The only thing that's happening now is that Tony is just letting her pile it all on him, and not giving back one damn jab in return, and what's __**that**__ doing to __**him**__?_

It had been his drafts that had finally gotten through to him. When Tim looked at some of the chapters he'd played with last year about this time, the random scenes he'd drafted for potential use later were almost like mental home videos of how they'd been – Lisa – _Ziva_ – sparkling and brash and full of life, her aimed barbs mostly at Tony, true, but all in fun, half the time even flirting, and not for one minute more than simple teasing; Gibbs, growly and no-nonsense but always the adult in the room, trying to herd the rambunctious kids they tended to be when not in mission mode; himself, finally getting in some of his own licks and, as always, the butt of DiNozzo's teasing.

But DiNozzo ... it wasn't only Ziva who had changed, but Tony, and Tim was overwhelmed with guilt that both Tony and Ziva were hurting so badly and no one had done anything about it.

...that _Gibbs_ had done nothing about it.

Tim got up suddenly from the couch, heading over to his fridge for a beer now and feeling a surge of anger at his boss. _Tony was right – Gibbs always knows __**everything**__; how can he not see this? And if he had, why hasn't he stepped in and ordered Ziva to see someone, maybe see if she can't talk this through,_ he wondered. Gibbs had been around for some of it, and he always seemed to know everything that went on with his team anyway, so how hadn't he seen how Ziva's teasing had turned into anger, how she berated Tony about some of his behavior now, not just teased; and how – McGee felt slightly sick at the thought – how _he_ had jumped in to echo Ziva and gang up on Tony, just as he had during silly little taunts before.

_Why didn't Gibbs have Tony's back on this? _Tim knew, guiltily, that he shouldn't _have_ to, but it didn't answer the question of where Gibbs was in all this, something that had he'd begun to notice after Tony mentioned it. _Gibbs has to see what's happening to the team but hasn't done anything to change or address it. Why not? Has he been just as clueless in all this as I am, without any idea of what to do? Was everything that had happened – from back when we went out to L.A. – enough to throw even Gibbs off course?_

Tim glanced at the clock – just barely after 1900 hours – and knew if he didn't go talk with someone about it, _now_, before any more time went by, he'd never forgive himself. He knew he couldn't talk with Ziva; he wouldn't begin to know what to say, and something like that needed to come from Gibbs – or from Tony. He could talk with Abby, but she was as unable to do anything to change the team's current dysfunction as he was. He could talk to Tony, but if Tony had known what to do he'd probably have done it by now. Gibbs? No way – Gibbs' team was a mess and he was either too off his game to notice, which was bad – or he did notice it and either chose not to say anything or had not come up with anything to say, both of which, at the moment, felt worse.

Tim grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. In recent months he and Tony had been through a hell of a lot together, and he had been able to talk to Tony about things more than he had anyone in a long while. He sensed that the senior field agent was proud of what he'd learned; the best evidence of that was Tony's treating him as an equal – or, he had, until they returned from Somalia. Now he just ... _took_ everything. At best, he'd tried joking a little and didn't react when it fell flat and they called him on it.

McGee shook off any uncertainty as he got in his car and turned to go toward Tony's place. If he didn't do this now he didn't know when he would ... and the way things were going, someone had to say something before something went seriously haywire. In their line of work, that was likely to mean more than just someone's feelings could be hurt...

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

After securing his weapon on his arrival home, and leaving his keys and wallet on the bookcase by the door, DiNozzo uncharacteristically had left a trail of his clothes, including one of his more expensive suits, a new tie and his favorite shoes, on his way to the shower, where he stood under the steaming spray for as long as the hot water would hold out. Weeks like this last one were long but never this grueling; he'd easily handled longer, tenser, or more physically demanding cases than the one they'd closed that day.

In the past, they might have all headed out for a beer or a bite on an early evening like this; now the team scattered as soon as their reports were turned in, leaving DiNozzo behind in the bullpen alone. Tony didn't think the others noticed, but with him being senior field agent, they'd know he had extra paperwork, and they probably assumed he was slower at his reports anyway. It allowed him to wait until his partners were gone before slipping down to the gym to pound out the frustrations of the day either by pummeling a bag or pounding miles of indoor track or elliptical stairs or whatever he first grabbed as he hit the gym. Depending on his day he might stay for hours. At least abusing his body in _that_ way beat drinking all to hell.

But no matter what he did – how he reacted or what he tried – things were so much harder now. Watching Ziva try handling the aftershocks of her captivity ... watching Tim trying to be supportive of her in the only way he knew how, getting her back in everything she said and did, half the time probably not even knowing he did so or what he was saying ... Watching Gibbs ... Gibbs was treating Ziva exactly how _he_ would want to be treated, so certain that she was a warrior like him even in the circumstances that she must have faced.

And him? What _had_ he tried, after all? DiNozzo gritted his teeth and told himself yet again he was a coward, afraid to ruin what little progress they seemed to make occasionally by facing her and telling her what someone needed to tell her, and soon: _Ziva, you're not handling this. Ziva, you need help. Ziva, we care about you and we are all wrecks because we don't know how to take your pain away. Ziva ... I __**still**__ can't live without you and I want to find you again, all of you, not just the brittle soldier who is trying her damnedest not to admit that the memories and the nightmares and the pain torture her as much as Saleem had..._

When the water finally started to cool, Tony wrapped a towel around his hips and grabbed another to scrub his hair dry. He thought about going back out and hitting a club or two, and realized that these days, the thought of doing just that left him wondering why he'd ever found it entertaining – or how he'd had the energy to do so. Instead, he hit his speed dial from memory, his phone's screen illegible in the steamy bathroom, and ordered a pizza from a place a couple blocks away.

He was just as glad he could avoid looking in the mirror, now covered in condensation, knowing he'd see exhaustion in his eyes going deeper than just the week and a body more battered than the handful of bruises and the cut above his eye he'd received from this week's arrest. He went into his bedroom and pulled on a tee shirt and some sweats, leaving his feet bare, then went into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. He pulled out a beer and twisted it open, taking a long draw on the cold brew. Wandering back into the bathroom and looking in the now clearer mirror, studiously avoiding anything other than the cut, he gingerly pulled off the butterfly bandage Ducky had placed there and deftly replaced it with a dry one, too experienced with doing so to even give it any thought as he did. _Ducky_, he wondered again. _Why hasn't Ducky taken Ziva aside and insisted she see someone? Has he? Has she? If she has, why is she still so..._

There was a knock at his door.

He blinked, surprised that the pizza came so quickly, and came out to his living room, heading to the bookcase to grab his wallet as he unconsciously walked around the clothes he'd left trailing back to the hall. He opened the door, not checking the peephole, to find not a pizza, but ...

"McGee!" Tony blinked. "What's wrong?"

Tim's thoughts tumbled at the simple greeting: had it been so long that his showing up meant something was wrong? It must be, because here he was, for the first time in months ... because something really _was_ wrong...

"Tony, I ..." McGee stammered. "May I come in, or are you in the middle of something?"

"I thought you were dinner. C'mon in. Once it gets here we can both be in the middle of it."

McGee came in and immediately noticed the clothing trail. DiNozzo's eyes followed his and, seeing the evidence of his arrival, grimaced slightly. "Long week, right?" He made a beeline for the offending items and gathered them up, disappeared into his bedroom for the moment needed to dump them on the bed, and came back in. "Beer?"

"Uh – yeah. Thanks."

McGee followed the senior field agent into the kitchen and murmured another thanks when the beer was extended toward him. Tony grabbed one for himself and looked at the younger agent in some concern, given his sudden arrival and apparent agitation. He nodded toward the living room and again for McGee to sit. "What's up, Tim?" he asked quietly.

McGee sat slowly on one end of the couch, watching Tony ease into a chair beside him, and realized he hadn't even begun to think how he was going to say what needed to be said. Taking a deep breath, he decided to just plunge into it – with the way their partnership had developed after Tony's return from Israel, before they heard about the Damocles going down, he hoped it would be accepted in the spirit it was offered. "Ziva. The team. _You_," he said. "Tony, things haven't been right for a long time, and none of us have done anything about it! Things are only getting worse, too – _she's_ worse," the words tumbled as McGee unloaded on his partner. "She's gotten angry at you over the slightest things, and she's getting snarkier than before. And ... it's happening more often."

McGee didn't know what to expect, but DiNozzo's quiet, accepting nod wasn't his first guess. "I know..." he said wearily. He didn't meet Tim's eyes, which in contrast hadn't left the senior agent since he'd begun talking.

"And you're not doing anything to provoke it, Tony, _nothing!_ I mean, you're barely ribbing anyone anymore and when you do..." Tim let the words trail off, knowing more wasn't needed and not sure what he could say about how Tony had just been – _taking_ it. "And it's all on you – when you're the one who got her out of that hell hole..."

"We all did, McGee," DiNozzo said softly.

"C'mon, Tony, we all know who was behind the plan, and who pushed it though – even Ziva knows that! And whatever she went through, the last person who deserves her anger is you."

"You're forgetting what happened before she went back to Israel," DiNozzo recounted, evenly, as if it was something he'd recited often, maybe just to remind himself how things went so out of control. "Maybe she's getting it all out of her system this way." DiNozzo shrugged softly, still not meeting McGee's eyes.

"And what's it doing to _you_?"

"Me?" Tony looked up at that, apparently surprised, before shrugging, a small, ironic smile appearing to cover his first response. "Hey, less pain than a head slap, so nothing I can't take."

"Tony, I was there, too." It was the most direct he'd been with Tony since they'd returned – maybe the most direct, ever. "For all of it, way before Somalia; for the two of you, dancing around each other and never figuring out what it was between you, for her reaction to Jeanne Benoit, and your reaction to Lieutenant Sanders and Damon Werth and Rivkin, for what her 'death' did to you, and what finding her alive did. Even if I hadn't been there to hear you say what you said because of the drugs Saleem gave you, Tony – " he ran out of steam, watching as DiNozzo listened to it all, his expression never changing. "C'mon, man. I know this has to be getting to you."

McGee watched as DiNozzo processed his words silently, his mask more or less in place, but not wholly shutting him out – a telling gesture of trust, given the source. After several moments, unmoving, the senior agent finally allowed his eyes to close as he said, wearily, "if it were really _Ziva_ doing it all of this, then yeah, it would be hard to take, Probie. But it's not Ziva – at least not the Ziva we knew before. She's still fighting to get past everything that she's been hit with since Rivkin got involved over here. The main thing is getting her past it all, and back to being herself, as much as it's possible."

"Gibbs isn't ever going say anything to her at this rate."

"Maybe not. He may be remembering how long it took for things to get right for _him_, after losing his wife and daughter. He's waiting for her to just work it off like he did."

"And we've all seen how well _that_ worked out," McGee muttered.

In spite of the topic and his weariness, Tony grinned at that, snorting his agreement and feeling a little extra pride that McGee was willing to see the chinks in iron-Gibbs' armor. "Good point." He drew a deep breath and sighed it out, adding, "as a practical matter, McGee – if Gibbs or Ducky or even one of us says anything to make Vance think that she's a liability in the field he'll have to bench her – for her own safety, for the team's and the Service and all the cases and people we deal with. And she didn't take well to desk duty before..."

"It's better than letting things go on like this," McGee urged.

"I know, Tim." The weariness was back, and Tony was silent for another few moments. "Look – I know someone, a psychologist, who works with both assault victims _and_ cops who go over the edge from the job. I hadn't asked her about things yet, because..." he hesitated. "I didn't think Gibbs would appreciate my going behind his back – or outside of the team – to address it."

"Then don't go behind his back – tell him you have a friend..."

"And put him back in the spot of having to tell Vance that Ziva's teammates question her status." He shrugged. "I even have to be careful to put it in a way that she won't be required to report it." He considered that again, for a moment, then went on, "I can ask her if she has any clue how we can do something without getting Ziva benched and even more pissed at me, because I have a feeling that a pissed Ziva, forced into counseling, isn't going to be a success story."

McGee nodded, buoyed with the idea and willing to believe it was their solution. "That's good, Tony, it sounds perfect."

"Nothing in this will ever be perfect, Probie." DiNozzo's voice had never sounded older or more tired than it did at the moment. "But it's a start – and it's better than what we have now."

If he had more to say it was interrupted by a knock at the door, leading the old DiNozzo smile to try to slip back into place. "There's the pizza," he stood, not quite able to shake off the weariness that Ziva's pain brought him now. "You get us a couple more beers and I'll get dinner."

"Tony," McGee stopped him. "Look – I'm sorry that it's taken me this long to see it..."

Tony sighed, nodding silently for the moment, before another knock moved him to respond. He shrugged. "Well, you're here before Gibbs," his smirk didn't carry much humor, "just like you were when we didn't know where she was or why she'd dropped off the radar." He lingered a moment over the thought, then moved to the door. "A couple more cold ones, Probie..." he repeated.

Tim nodded to the senior agent and went in to get them another couple beers. He was willing to put his trust in DiNozzo, this time even more than he would in Gibbs. He just hoped that somehow both Tony and Ziva would get past all this and at least get back to where they'd been. He'd leave it to Abby to hope that the two could ever connect on a more personal level. Abby had long been convinced they were attracted to each other, just never quite at the same time. Admittedly he'd seen some of it too, even wrote a bit of it in his first book, but now...

He came back into DiNozzo's living room as the senior agent turned back from the door, bringing the pizza just delivered. As he handed Tony a beer and pulled out a piece of pizza, Tim found himself hoping that Abby was right, and that the two could work something out. Each of them deserved a break in that department, and neither would ever find someone who better understood the stress and demands of the job than the other.

"Down the hatch," Tony smiled wearily and lifted his beer in a half toast. As McGee did the same in response, he decided he would start writing them a happily ever after. Maybe they'd never see it; maybe it was just for good luck and wouldn't ever be published. But Abby was so certain positive thoughts made a difference, it was something he could do for them when he couldn't think of anything else to do.

Decision made, and Ziva's problem left in Tony's concerned hands, Tim began to feel a bit better about the whole thing, and took a healthy bit of his pizza. When he left Tony's tonight, no matter how late, he would get at least a little free writing down on paper, and Agents Tommy and Lisa would face their long-denied attraction and find out just what each had been thinking about the other all this time...

_... to be continued._


	4. Catherine

Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N**: Thanks to everyone for the reviews, PMs, favorites & alerts – it's great to hear from so many of you! All comments welcomed.

"_**OKAY, TRIED - COULDN'T. LISTEN..."**_

**December, 2009**

Fifteen minutes early, just as he'd planned, Tony arrived at his destination and found a parking spot, pulling in with a small sigh of relief. Technically, they were on call this weekend and the fact that he was forty minutes away from home, just outside Baltimore, wouldn't make Gibbs happy if they had to be somewhere in the other direction. But now that he was here, he was about a third of the way done with this "mission," and the likelihood he'd be interrupted before he accomplished what he'd hoped to do lessened with every passing minute.

He hadn't been to this bistro in years, not that he'd gone much when he lived and worked in Baltimore; the area had barely been built up and the bistro, only passable. Now, judging from the shops that had sprung up around the area and the clientele here for a late Saturday lunch, it had upscaled itself quite a bit.

Well, Catherine had told him her fee would be a good meal, and from the looks of it, her choice had been with that in mind.

_Catherine._ Despite the circumstances that brought him here, he chuckled to himself when he thought of her. If ever there was a female DiNozzo, it was Catherine – at least as far as being the newbie in the department, the purposefully self-absorbed goofball, the one people overlooked or discounted as too pretty or too flippant to take seriously. But he'd spotted her for what she was early in his time in Baltimore, as she did him; they went on one date and found they were so much alike, in too many ways, that the evening soon shifted from "date" to being a couple of pals just hanging out, cracking jokes ... then sharing hidden hurts or disappointments offered with the safety coating of sarcasm or humor. That back then she was on the department's profiler team, and was now the department's ranking psychologist after heading back to school and snagging a couple more degrees, didn't surprise Tony in the least. If anything, Dr. Catherine Baker-Dyson's career path was more predictable than his, given their similar, screwed-up childhoods.

Tony got out of the car, pulling his collar up against the chilly November wind, and walked toward the door. He hoped that his old friend could help him figure out just what was going on with Ziva now and how to address it. If Catherine couldn't give him some answers, with her training and her decade-plus with BPD as a psychologist working with cops, with victims, with bad guys and everyone in between – then no one could.

Coming into the foyer, Tony looked around the place to see that it had been remodeled not long ago to match its increasingly gentrified neighbors. He shook his head at the hostess, saying he was waiting for someone, and distractedly scanned the room. He had alternately rehearsed what he wanted to say and had tossed it, reminding himself that Catherine always could see though him and would do better at extracting the truth – and what to do about it – if he just told her what he knew and what he saw. He sighed again, hating that things had come to a point where he felt he needed to ask for help. It made it easier that he had a trusted friend he could ask who might have some answers, but still...

He turned back toward the large windows flanking the entrance and was completely unprepared for what he saw, across the parking lot and nearing the curb. His stunned expression quickly morphed into the huge grin splitting his face as the door opened, and his buddy, the beautiful, blonde, brilliant Catherine Baker-Dyson, Ph.D, waddled in with a hugely swollen belly and flat, sensible shoes. Tony forgot why he was there for the moment and his belly laugh of delight to see her – and in such a condition – literally made him double over with his laughter, which was both genuine and ramped up for effect.

"Shut up, DiNozzo, I swear I can still punch your lights out!" The 'beautiful, brilliant blonde' growled at the man who now walked over to her, arms open for a hug of welcome but barely able to do so, given that her words just set him to laughing again. "If I can catch you, you're toast..."

The pair hugged and even Catherine couldn't hide the grin at his reaction, no matter how she tried. The hug disentangled and Tony held her at arm's length, making a big production of how his arm's length still barely cleared her tummy, earning him another glare and producing yet another burst of snorting laughter from the agent.

"Oh, geez, Catherine, why you didn't tell me! I would have thought it would be in the papers, 'Baltimore psychologist pregnant with septuplets...'"

"As brilliant as ever, Tony? And gee, so clever; no one else has thought of such an original, amusing line..." She waddled up to the hostess with Tony again snorting a laugh at her, "a table for _two,_ please, not nine. You just take it out on me, DiNozzo, so you don't crush the feelings of any other pregnant mothers for a while ... that's what I'm here for."

He laughed, slid an arm around her shoulders as the hostess gathered their menus, and planted a smooch on the side of her head. "Miss me, Baker?'

"Like heartburn – which, by the way, is pretty constant these days, thanks for asking – you have those occasional moments when you're suddenly aware it's not there making you suffer." As they started off to follow the hostess, her growling softened and she glanced up at her old friend, affection clear in her eyes even if she wouldn't admit any of it yet. "And you have no excuse for not knowing, or not coming to visit once in a while..."

"Yes I do – _Gibbs_," he said, waiting as she settled and then taking a seat himself. She knew about his job, about Gibbs, about his schedule and how he'd finally found just the place for himself to flourish and grow as a LEO – mainly due to his frequent attempts, especially in the early days, to convince her she would love it too and that NCIS would be lucky to have her. "I'm on call now – _officially_ on call, we had to rotate in yesterday – so I'm holding my breath we won't be interrupted."

She shrugged. "We'll deal." She gave a fast glance at the menu then tossed it aside, looking at him appraisingly.

He made a quick decision and closed his menu as well, settling it on hers and starting his words before he even looked back up to meet her gaze. "I should have known I'd get the shrink-stare from you on arrival."

"Hey, we're on a schedule here. You're on call and we both know how that goes, and," she gave a comic glance down to her protruding abdomen, "I may pop at any minute. So we get to business. " She considered him for only another moment before her look softened. "And not too soon, I'm guessing."

Tony glanced away momentarily, disconcerted that it took her so little time, even knowing her skill and how well she'd read him in the past. "You're a phony, like a carnival barker," he murmured, stalling as he tried to gather his thoughts. "Or a fortune teller. You don't really see anything, but just take the way I called and what you know about me and throw something open-ended out there, to make me _think_ you know something from just looking at me and make me talk."

"Tricks of the trade," she shrugged softly, sensing his stalling for what it was. "I have tarot cards and a crystal ball in my car, too; take your pick." They were interrupted for the moment by the waitress, taking their orders, and Catherine waited after the woman left, watching Tony silently.

Clearly there was a lot on his mind that had led him to call her, and no matter the jokes on the phone, the guffaws at her expense, she could see he was weighed down with something – not typical for DiNozzo at all, even not the more responsible, maturing Tony she'd seen over recent years; not for the Tony who called her when his hero, Gibbs, abandoned the team to him or when he'd reappeared as suddenly; not even for the Tony who had confessed his latest relationship, how it had all started as an undercover job that had ended very, very badly, and the genuine, painful heartbreak he felt afterward...

It had been nearly a year since they'd last seen each other, and the friend she saw before her now was hurting again. Hurting, and ... unsure. Undecided. Without a plan of action to fix whatever had broken. She drew a breath and said softly, "DiNozzo... c'mon. You called me; you want to talk." She watched him carefully, compassionately. "Talk to me."

"What, you come in here nearly ready to deliver your second ... it is second, right?" At her eye-rolling nod, he continued, "second child, and you haven't mentioned Ben or Christopher or that menagerie you have at the house. Don't you want to catch up?"

"DiNozzo, you're really not that good at stalling, you know that?" She considered him for a moment, then urged quietly, "everyone is fine, we have a couple more hamsters, and you said you're on call. The fact that you called me and wanted to meet right away means something is serious, Tony. How can I help?"

He didn't say anything for several more moments, clearly weighing things, trying to decide how to start. With a deep breath, he nodded, then looked up, suddenly more cautious than he'd ever been with her. "Okay, but Catherine, I need to invoke the privilege – officially. So if I need to pay you or do whatever to make it official, I'll do it..."

_Very serious, then._ Her words in response were light but sincere and called for his trust. "Alright ... and to make it official we'll make lunch payment, just payment in goods, rather than cash." She watched for the caution to resolve, and when it didn't immediately, added, "it's okay, Tony – psychologist-patient privilege. You have my word." She shrugged and tried a comforting smile. "And for future reference, technically, payment isn't even required for that."

She saw his shoulders relax slightly at that and the caution in his eyes melted. He took another moment and began, "it's about my partner ... it's kind of involved, but... I want to know what's going on with her, and if I ... _how_ I can help her."

With his insistence on invoking the privilege, Catherine had expected something very different. "Okay," she began, then guessed, "so the confidentiality isn't so much to protect you, as to protect

her."

Even in his concern, Tony tried smirking a little, then drawled, without real humor, "well, doc, I guess you _are_ good." When his deflecting joke didn't change her expression or elicit a response, he added, "there are issues that touch on classified information, so that is part of the problem, but mostly ... I'm concerned that ... if it all came out, they might find her unfit for duty."

"Is she?"

"No. Or ... not like that. Not for just the usual stuff, investigations and all, but..." he shrugged, then looked back, solemnly, into Catherine's eyes for the first time since they'd sat down. "I don't know," he said honestly.

"Tony, if you and your team – or if she – is compromised by her being unfit for duty..." Catherine began.

"No, it's not really that."

Catherine searched the face of her friend, clearly at a loss to know what to do for a partner she suddenly began to suspect was more than just a partner. "Then tell me – what's going on, Tony?"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

For the next fifteen minutes, Tony gave his report – or, that's how it felt to him, how it sounded to Catherine, although even in clinical, colorless terms it sounded horrific enough. Tony told her the tale of his Mossad liaison partner, Ziva, and the actions of another Mossad assassin that appeared to spin out of control, the assassin playing Ziva to do more damage while he remained in the U.S., and to compromise Ziva both professionally and personally. Tony explained his own part of it all, how the assassin's actions made Ziva's conduct suspect, and how as a result he'd risked his own career by seeking her out rather than reporting his information – or his suspicions and fears – to his supervisors.

It was a scene played out in countless movies and TV shows about cops, Catherine reflected as she listened; one that occurred too often in real life law enforcement when a cop became a suspect and his partner tried a single handed rescue – one that DiNozzo clearly should have seen coming but would have done anyway, as always fiercely loyal to anyone showing _him_ loyalty. In this case at least, his own actions didn't bring his career more than a stern word from his Director, but had ended in the death of the Mossad assassin, Michael, at DiNozzo's hand, and the violent, unrelenting anger from Ziva, who'd had some sort of relationship with the assassin, the extent – and genuineness – of which she didn't even herself seem to know.

Catherine tucked that part away as she heard it: _response to the incident blind anger at DiNozzo, when he had gotten involved just to keep her ass out of trouble. _In all other moments Tony's partner had sounded logical and reasoned, putting cool thought over emotion, business over sentiment. Tony seemed to worry that her anger meant she had in fact loved the Mossad officer. Catherine wasn't so sure.

But DiNozzo wasn't finished; he went on to describe the deeper turn taken in the scenario when, given the players, it bordered on becoming an international incident and they were packed off to Israel, where Ziva learned that not only Michael but her own, very powerful father, the Director of Mossad, had used her, repeatedly, for questionable ends. For the first time she began to see things for what they were, and found that she was not only ignorant about the aims and purpose of each man's actions over the past few years, but that she had never realized what either man saw her to be.

_Her anger and sense of betrayal must have overwhelming_, Catherine considered. _Her professional life upended, and at her father's hand ... maybe even her sense of who she is left in question?_ As Catherine listened, it seemed that despite these new revelations, Ziva had been willing to leave most of her anger squarely with Tony. And although she didn't know this Ziva, and admittedly didn't know how DiNozzo might handle things these days – hell, she was getting only his version – Catherine had known Tony as well as she knew anyone and felt sure that the anger turned on him wasn't anything he had earned or deserved.

"So she stayed in Israel – or so we thought," Tony was still speaking in a neutral tone but his voice had gotten softer, the memories clearly nearing even more uncomfortable territory. Their lunch, having arrived five minutes earlier, sat largely ignored. "Her father sent her on a mission to eradicate a terrorist cell in Somalia ... and we got word that her ship sank, without survivors." Catherine watched as the information still caused him pain, even now. "After a time, we arranged a mission of our own, designed to locate and destroy the terrorist cell that had been causing so much damage, and had gotten all this started with Mossad." He paused, his mind not on her or this Baltimore suburb, but Somalia. "We went in thinking Ziva was long dead, never having ever made it that far. But funny thing..." his harsh whisper was raspy with his pain; from which of the several possible reasons it came, Catherine wasn't sure – maybe all of them. "She was alive. She had been alive, an Israeli woman held captive by thirty-some male terrorists from a whole host of countries and cultures that don't think too much of Israel." He swallowed, and suddenly coming back to his surroundings, without looking up he slid his fingers toward his soda, allowing his long, graceful fingers to trace up the side of the glass, moving the rivulets of condensation to streak downward. "She was alive, and there is only one reason they would have kept her alive, because Saleem Ulman had some home-brewed truth serum cocktail that would have drained her of everything she knew about everything in about three days." He shook his head. "But she _lived_, more than four months she lived, and everyone pretends nothing happened, that she was just ... away. Like it was just some bad cruise or beachfront rental during a rainy week – 'oh well, rough break .'" His face held the dark agitation he felt with both the circumstances and his inability to fix any of it.

Understanding the reason for his sense of uncertainty now and suspecting the sort of lingering damage Ziva might be demonstrating, Catherine felt some surprise that Ziva could be back at work already, after such a long, horrific ordeal, especially if she were still showing any sign of resulting problems – and especially not at a federal agency like NCIS. She frowned, knowing that _some_ protocols would be in place to be followed. "Certainly they would have had a psych eval, some sessions with her, before she came back on duty..."

Tony shrugged and again laughed that humorless laugh, "well, yeah, sure, but between Ziva and the fairly easy-to-fool shrinks they have there, she passed." He lifted his soda for a long drink, then said, a smirk in place as he looked at her, his familiar, protective banter back, "I told you, Baker, we really needed to have you on board; maybe we ought to get you in for an interview after your litter makes its appearance..."

"Tony..." she cautioned sadly, keeping him on task.

He wavered, eyes still meeting hers, before dropping them to murmur a simply, soft "sorry." She was never, ever sidetracked by his little deflections, he remembered...

"She's still your partner, back on field duty, no restrictions?"

He nodded, "but through NCIS itself now, not Mossad anymore – obviously," he said, his tone even again.

Catherine's eyes narrowed and she thought a moment before cocking her head to ask, "when you rescued her – how was she? What was her demeanor?"

"Resigned. Ready to die. She even tried to give herself up so we'd be left alive," he replied.

"Was she still so angry at you, at that moment?" When he didn't answer right away, Catherine prompted, "it was how you parted ways in Israel, wasn't it? She was still enraged at you and what she interpreted as your part in everything?"

Tony looked back at the psychologist, trying to read where her thoughts were taking her. "It wasn't just what she 'interpreted.'" Unconsciously, he came to Ziva's defense – _again_, Catherine considered. "I killed Michael."

"In self-defense." It wasn't a question.

He nodded. "In self-defense," he agreed, his voice soft but certain. Catherine was gratified to see at least that from her friend.

"And now? Not so angry anymore?" _Ah, the issue,_ Catherine caught, as she saw DiNozzo shift uncomfortably, apparently not certain of the answer. _It's as much about how the two of them are interacting as Ziva's functioning on the job – why she might not be unfit for duty, per se, but maybe unfit to remain partnered with __**him.**_ "Have you discussed it?"

"Kind of. Not really. Sort of ... around it, in code." He was quiet for a moment and shrugged, "I think _she_ thinks she's past it, and if that means forgiveness or whatever ... I guess there's that."

"Has she ever acknowledged that it wasn't a 'fault' situation on your end, that it was self-defense?"

He gave a smaller, vaguer shrug. "Same answer."

"Has she recognized what you put on the line for her?"

Tony had grown uncomfortable with the questions. "Look, I know she has a whole lot of crap to sort through; anything involving me is sort of B list or C list as compared to all the daddy issues and Mossad crap and... and..." he paused, "what it all got her, last summer."

"Has she seen anyone? Any victims' assistance programs, counseling?"

Tony snorted again, a mix of sadness and cynicism there. "Oh, I promise you that if it has 'victim' in the title, Ziva David will _not_ have anything to do with it..."

"But she _is_ a victim, Tony, was a victim of a whole series of terrible things, and betrayals, and horrific..."

"Yeah, I got that Catherine," Tony interrupted angrily, "I'm all over that one. Why do you think I called you?" His harsh, sharp tone caused a couple at the next table to glance over in surprise, but it told Catherine far more than his words had this far.

She merely nodded, her blue eyes soft, letting him get past the moment. When he did he was more apologetic than she'd ever heard him.

"Sorry, Catherine; I didn't... "

"Hey..." Catherine reached over and softly tapped her finger on his hand, a gentle reminder of where and who they were, why they were there. She paused a moment, then resumed. "Tell me what was in your head when you called me to meet today, Tony. What was the final straw, that made you think you needed to get some help to handle this, or make it right, or whatever it is you're trying to do here?" He met her eyes again, clearly wondering what to tell her, probably discounting the actual reason. "The _real_ reason, the red flag," she added before he could throw out a false lead.

He hesitated several moments before speaking, clearly considering the heart of things, Catherine could see. "It's barely anything, compared to all the drama," he stalled.

"All the more telling, sometimes," she prodded. "Whatever it was."

Tony nodded, seeming to believe her; he was silent again as he worked out how to explain it. "The team," he finally said. "I mean ... before, we were always ragging on each other ... or, I guess, I was always ragging on one of them and they'd give it back..."

"Now why does that not surprise me," she teased softly, encouraging him to relax a little. She knew that _he_ knew that of anyone in his life, she would understand what he did and why – _all_ the reasons why...

"Yeah," he did smile a little, weary and slightly cynical, but genuine. "But ... it was ... just goofing. Meaningless. It didn't hurt, it wasn't to attack. Even our probie – our newest member, Tim – has been around long enough that he gets it now, gets that it's not really hazing and not to hurt or wound, just to..."

"Get through all the hours and the bodies and the blood?"

He looked up at her, and she saw some gratitude there that she understood. "Yeah," he breathed. He stared back down at the table for another moment, and Catherine found herself wondering which it was that made the usually garrulous DiNozzo so quiet, if it was all the issues surrounding his partner – and his clearly confused feelings for her – or his recent and very appealing maturity. Probably both, she mused.

When he didn't speak again, she helped. "But...?" she prodded.

"But ... since we got back – since Ziva got back – " Again, a sigh, not something she'd ever heard much from DiNozzo. "And it wasn't just how the team was before she left. When we got back from Israel, and it was just Gibbs and McGee and me, we were different, but it worked pretty well. Tim wasn't just the probie anymore, but is a really fine agent, and we even went for a beer once in a while, or grabbed dinner...'

"More like having a partner in the Department, before you went to the Feds?"

He blinked at that, the thought surprising him, and he looked at her as he considered it. "Yeah – I hadn't thought about it, but yeah, more like having a partner on the force," he agreed, "at least, having a _good_ partner." He amended with a soft snort. She knew that hadn't always been the case for him. "But – we went from a good team dynamic that worked, to another good team – smaller, and different, but just as good..."

He trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

She knew he wouldn't, so she did for him. "And then ... Ziva came back."

As she expected, his eyes clouded; before he could withdraw she interrupted his thoughts. "Tony – even had everything been sunshine and roses for her the dynamic would have changed when she came back, so don't discount things before you look at them, okay?" Catherine saw him consider her words – and saw, to her relief, his trust in her – so went on, "and what she went through would make hell a day at the beach, but she slid through her fitness interviews and is back with you guys, probably swimming in post-traumatic issues and probably not seeing anyone about it?" At his silent nod, she continued, "... so she didn't come back and just pick up the old banter as it was before, I'm guessing. In fact ... she's not falling back to being the same old person she used to be."

Tony hadn't faltered as Catherine dove into what she hoped was her best guess on what had happened, but his pained silence at her words told the psychologist she'd hit home. "You're scaring me, Baker," he finally murmured, his eyes still not meeting hers. "You never told me you're psychic."

"It's what I do for a living, DiNozzo," her words were soft in return. She waited a moment, letting him process what he wanted to say, then urged quietly, "so tell me how it's different now."

She could see him replaying scenes from work in his head. He finally shrugged, "it's mostly the little things. Sometimes, the jokes and the comments and all that, it's about the same and she's fine, a little snarky, but fine. And at first, it was feeling closer to how things had been before she left – at least, on the outside, how we acted and sounded. But then, sometimes since she's been back on field duty ... a few times..." he frowned, "it's been angry. _She's _been angry. Vicious, even. Not the words, really, although they're not exactly warm and fuzzy, and not all the time, but ... it's the _way_ she says things, to _me_, about me – it's hostile and angry, over small, pointless stuff, and different than anything before, even when she was legitimately angry," he tried to explain what he'd seen from her.

"Only to and about you?" Catherine asked.

He nodded, but then as an afterthought, added with a humorless laugh, "and a couple times McGee jumped in to join her, almost as ... _direct," _he minimized, "but he hasn't initiated it – not any of the really angry stuff." Tony sighed, "he hadn't even realized he was doing it until recently. He was just trying to show Ziva some support."

"And... Ziva's anger flares only occasionally?" she asked. Again, she got a nod. "What do you do in response?"

This time, a snort, but one that carried self-derision and irritation at himself – along with a tiny glimpse of the hurt he felt in being Ziva's target. "I stand there and take it and pretend nothing happened and it's all fine, just like the rest of them do."

Catherine sighed and reached over again to rub his hand supportively, but kept going. "What about Gibbs – any change from him, since she's been back?"

"No," Tony shook his head. "He never really intruded into any of it, before or now, unless it's getting in the way of some information he wants or of us getting down to work. I know he sees the difference, too, he sees everything and this is as obvious as her absence was – but he's always seen Ziva as a warrior, more like the soldier he was than like Tim or me. I think he's just giving her time and space to sort herself out. It's what he'd want, and he's probably using that as his guide to what to do for her."

"And you don't think that's enough." It wasn't a question; Catherine knew the answer. She just wanted to be sure Tony did too.

"No," he whispered, and finally looked up to Catherine with all the pain he felt reflected in his eyes. "Catherine, she was abandoned by her teammates and sent to die by her father; she was imprisoned, tortured, raped, God knows what else ... even _I_ know you don't walk that shit off, no matter who you are!" He finally let it out. "I asked her to talk but she won't, suggested in a roundabout way she see someone but she ignored me. We don't even know what happened to her but she won't acknowledge anything did, and the others ..." He paused, letting his control catch up with him. "...the others just play along. _I've_ played along, but I can't anymore. She's hurting and angry, but just hides it better sometimes than others, and I can't find a way to suggest she ... that she get some help," he closed his eyes for a moment.

"Well, if what you suspect happened _did_ happen, then she should talk to someone. I have a couple ideas, with a sort of continuum of how 'intrusive' it is." Catherine leaned forward a little, around the now softly kicking baby inside her. "First, I have a couple numbers for 24 hour rape crisis lines – staffed by professionals, completely anonymous and sometimes the easiest place to start talking with someone – no risk to it," she began. "I have information cards you can give her to go with their phone numbers. Also, there are some good clinics and groups, both in the District and around the metro area; there's some anonymity in being able to go to a place pretty far from where all your friends and co-workers might be." She watched DiNozzo as he considered her words, clearly still not satisfied. "Don't be surprised if she never talks with you about it. Maybe she will, but for a lot of reasons – and especially for Ziva, trained as you say she was to be the aggressor, to be stronger than those men – she might not. All bets are off when something like this happens, and you will have to just meet her on her own terms." Watching DiNozzo, she knew he still hadn't caught on yet to what she saw in Ziva's reactions. "But Tony – you _have_ been there for her, and she knows it, and whether or not either of you have a clue, you've been taking her through those first steps."

He snorted, agitated at the thought. "Oh yeah? So I've made it worse, that's what this is all about?"

"No, dope, just the opposite." Catherine even smiled. "Look – since she's been back, have you resolved the issue about Michael? With what you did for her, trying to clear her of any involvement in what he was doing?"

"Indirectly," he conceded, "she said she knew I had her back, and from that ... I thought she saw the situation as it happened. The fact that our M.E. supported my report from my x-rays and from his autopsy of Michael didn't hurt."

Catherine nodded, her "diagnosis" confirmed. "Well, then, I'd say I was right." At the expression in DiNozzo's eyes – wanting some assurance that his partner would be whole again, that the team would survive ... and Ziva and he, maybe, would at least return to where they were before – Catherine urged, "c'mon, DiNozzo, you'd see it if this was anyone else, not you and your team. Think about what some of the guys do after a bad case – what Lou or Scotty, some of the others did – even you, sometimes – after a kid case or a bad shooting or something – what did you do to keep from screaming all night?"

"Went down to the gym and killed a punching bag or two." He shrugged again, quietly. "Still do."

Catherine nodded. "Why?"

"Burn off the adrenalin or the anger or frustration or to keep from punching the perp's face in," he answered immediately.

"But why the bag? Why not the perp?" When he snorted and rolled his eyes, she urged, "no, really – why not go after whomever has pissed you off, or has slaughtered innocent kids, or – destroyed something so precious..." She saw understanding begin to dawn in his eyes and she went with it. "Tony, if she were really that angry at _you_ now she would be more consistent about it than you describe, and it would have surfaced immediately when she got back. But with Ziva it surfaced after she was back on duty a while, after she had a chance to settle in?" At Tony's nod, Catherine tipped her head and offered, "you're her punching bag, Tony. And _only_ you – "

"The best target," he minimized.

"The one she _trusts_ the most," Catherine urged. "Tony, it sucks to be punched, but she's getting some of it out of her system – and she trusts you to not punch back." She shook her head. "Ziva must be quite a fighter – she survived those months in the hands of those terrorists and is finding her own way back from the abuse."

"Oh, yeah," he breathed, again losing himself in memories, speculation, maybe both. Catherine watched as her friend mulled over her words, matching them to what his team had been through over the past several weeks. She saw him start to accept her analysis, and to believe that he might have actually helped Ziva through some recovery, tentative as it might be. Catherine was gratified to see that it seemed to ease some of his own pain. But it also increased her own curiosity for what DiNozzo had gotten himself into this time – falling for a partner, an Israeli with a powerful but apparently conscience-free father? He had the signs. It would just take time to see if it was the real thing and if it could weather the storm Ziva must be feeling as a result of her months-long ordeal and the blows from being betrayed by those close to her.

"Look," Catherine interrupted his thoughts, "if she wants to talk one on one with someone, tell her you know someone with some experience working with sexual assault victims and kidnaping victims and law enforcement – even with some who fit all three." She raised her eyebrows as her tone lifted encouragingly.

"I will. Thanks," Tony said softly.

Catherine nodded, forking a mouthful of her salad as she watched him do the same, and she went on with the next step – the one she predicted would be the harder step with him. "And what about you, Tony? When will _you_ see someone?"

He chuckled without losing a moment, his defenses quickly and glibly raised. "What, this lunch isn't enough?"

"For yourself, goofball, as if you didn't know," she drawled, but kept at him. "You're hurting, Tony, for what _you_ went through, and what you're going through now. You were treated badly, and maybe under the circumstances it's understandable and even forgivable, but Ziva hurt you, Tony, that she didn't recognize what you were doing to protect her and that she ever saw this Michael as the victim in it all. You're still hurting every time she lashes out at you. Maybe it won't hurt quite so much knowing that it's actually a compliment, being the recipient of her displaced anger, but it's still gotta hurt ... since it's coming from a woman you love."

DiNozzo's eyes snapped up at that to look into hers, warily. "Whoa, where did that come from? Hormone overload?"

"God, DiNozzo, you'd better be glad I'm immune to your bullshit. _'Hormones,'_" Catherine parroted, rolling her eyes and taking another bite of her lunch.

Tony was left with her statement – an accusation; a fact – left hanging in the air, his hormone jab having no effect at all. "Why would you say...?" He began, until he remembered that Catherine was one of maybe two or three people in his life who wouldn't be led away from her point. Left with nothing to say that would matter, he looked back to his salad for a moment before pushing it aside. He let his breath out in a noisy sigh, then shrugged. "Doesn't really matter anyway..."

"Of course it does – to you _and_ to her."

"I think she has enough crap to wade through at this point in her life without ... without me pressing her for a date or something."

Catherine pursed her lips, then shrugged. "She has a lot to get through, I'm sure, but it may actually help her to know that someone cares for her as you do."

"And how lame is it that I have to _tell_ her, that she doesn't just _know..._"

"She supposed to read minds now?" Catherine considered him for another moment, then relented. "Okay, let's just say I'll take that as your affirmation that you and she haven't had any sort of discussion along those lines."

He snorted softly, no humor in the sound. "Good call."

The look in her friend's eyes as she spoke, and as he replied, made Catherine feel a catch of sadness for Tony and this partner of his. "How long have you felt this way?" she asked.

"Uh, look, doc; I never promised anything about dessert. Aren't you on the 'one-patient-per-course' payment plan? We just might need to book this as a later session."

Catherine looked at him cooly as he again tried to skirt the issue. "Let's say it's all for my own, unwholesome interest in your personal life, and that you owe me for not staying in touch better," she watched him carefully, and dared to add, "and because I _know_ you, DiNozzo, and know the signs, and think your feelings for Ziva are about the most serious I've seen you display. Ever." His expressive green eyes met hers now, unwavering, as if in admission. "So what are you gonna do about it?" she asked softly.

"What can I do, given all I've just told you?"

"You can tell me how long have you felt this way," Catherine repeated.

DiNozzo rolled his eyes and shrugged at the impossible question, but at the resulting silence and continued appraising look from his old friend, finally relented, "I don't know. From when I met her? From every day when she'd surprise me again, just when I would think I had her figured out? From when I kept telling myself there was no way I could ever even date her because she was impossible and scarey and completely unlike any girl I ever knew – completely unlike like any_one_ I ever knew..."

"So you don't know," Catherine nodded, " but ... a long time. Before Michael was in the U.S. and before he died, and before she was captured." Tony nodded, the admission settling on him as he began to brood about it. Catherine chuckled sympathetically and murmured, "Oh, DiNozzo, you really do manage to make things complicated for yourself, don't you?"

Tony looked back up to see his friend's soft smile, and it gave him a sudden sense of hope he hadn't had in a long time – Catherine wouldn't smile like that if she didn't see at least a chance for a good outcome in it all, he was certain, and her batting average was damn respectable. "Complicated – but not impossible?" he dared.

"Nothing is impossible, but ... " her smile faded only slightly as she leaned forward again. "I think it's going to take a whole lot of patience, Tony. You have it in you, I know you do – but it may hurt for a while longer before things get better. And even if Ziva gets herself back – do you have any idea if she might be interested in a relationship? Was there any sign of it, before things went to hell for her?"

He was silent; clearly he was thinking it over and clearly had no clear answer, even for himself. With that Catherine sighed a little, wishing she could make things easier for her friend.

"So how would you feel if you hung in there, got her back, helped her out of the place she's in now – and it was all platonic, no relationship at the end? How would you feel?"

Again, DiNozzo was quiet for the moment, thinking over her words, then spoke. "I'd be glad that I could be there for her," he shrugged.

At that, Catherine smiled again, warmly. "Then just be _you_, Tony, and _be_ there for her. From the way you describe Ziva, she'll start to see things for what they are again and when it's time, you see about going the next step, and the next. Just follow your instincts."

"Not the best instincts, Baker," he protested weakly, but Catherine could see he was listening. He knew she wouldn't lie to him, and must know she believed in him – she always had, and no matter if all the others around him didn't.

"Shut up, DiNozzo," she joked, softly. "You know you have it in you, you just get in your own way. But you won't, not this time..." she challenged, and watched as his eyes caught hers even more intently than before, asking for confirmation. "Ziva is special to you and you will be there for her, whatever she needs and however she needs it. The two of you are already connected. You just need time to sort out exactly what that connection is and what you'll do with it."

DiNozzo tried one last, half-hearted effort at denying his feelings for Ziva. "Can't be much. Gibbs has a rule against dating co-workers..."

Catherine grinned as she shook her head ruefully. "Yeah? Well, I have a feeling that if you and someone as strong as Ziva decide to make it a go that ol' Gibbs won't stand a chance."

Tony mulled it over and smiled, a chuckle then breaking free. "Yeah. Maybe if that happens, I'll send Ziva in to deal with Gibbs and just hide 'til it all blows over."

Catherine watched Tony's expression soften as he thought of his partner, and was even more convinced that with DiNozzo's undeniable charm and typically hidden empathy, it was possible that things would end well for them both. "Bring her to see the kid, DiNozzo, when you come visit me after I deliver." Her tone was wry. "I want to meet this Mossad partner of yours."

"Catherine," his eyebrows went up. "You haven't asked to meet any of my dates since I left Baltimore."

"There's a reason for that, dope," she grinned, but her eyes shone with meaning. "You still have to have my blessing for anything serious. I think you're late on that front, this time."

DiNozzo's expression told Catherine he got it, exactly as she intended, and he relaxed a little. "You think I won't blow it?"

"I think you need to trust your instincts," she repeated. "Your training and experience and life blows and all that – and the instincts that developed from them all. This one is important to you, Tony, and your usually good heart is in the best of places. I have a good feeling about how this can end, even given all the circumstances – just be there for her and listen to your gut on things."

He sat quietly for a moment, then nodded. "Thanks, Baker," he offered sincerely. In the next moment, though, his eyes twinkled as he added, "so that didn't cost me a dessert?'

"It should, but I have no room for food anymore," she complained.

"I know," the Dinozzo grin was back in full now. "Why do you think I offered?"

_**To be continued...**_


	5. Tony & Ziva

Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N**: The final chapter, finally! Once again, thanks to all of you who have commented or PM'd to say you liked this story, and thanks too for all the alerts and favoriting you've done. So many new readers, too! You all made my days this week; my e-mail alert was pinging madly with all the action!

Once again – thanks so much for reading and for letting me know what you thought. All comments are very much appreciated...

"_**OKAY, TRIED - COULDN'T. LISTEN..."**_

**December, 2009**

It had been only three days since he'd bent Catherine's ear about things. He had wanted to take more time and think it all through, but in the days since, Tony was more and more certain something had to give soon. Even aside from what Ziva said anymore or how she reacted to him, she wasn't herself; swinging from Stepford-Ziva, with a vaccuous little smile as she seemed to tune out things around her, to that quick irritation with things that never bugged her before. If there had been signs of improvement it might be less disconcerting, but Catherine said to trust his gut on this, and his gut was screaming that Ziva was at best stalled in some emotional limbo, and at worst – getting worse.

Tony wondered again how Gibbs had let them go on this long. He didn't think he was such a good actor that Gibbs didn't sense he was off his game; he didn't think Gibbs had become suddenly so oblivious to his team that he missed just how off kilter both he and Ziva – and therefore, even McGee – had been since she was back in the field. What Tony didn't get was _why_ he'd let it go on even this long. He'd given serious thought to confronting his boss about it; after all, it was not only chain of command but it was what he'd normally do, seek Gibbs' advice and defer to the man's better judgment. But this time – this time it didn't seem like the best way. Had Gibbs known what to do, he would have done something by now. Maybe he still thought that waiting for Ziva to heal on her own was best, but at this point Tony didn't think so, and in this he might even have more experience than Gibbs, the sheer number of kidnaping or sexual assault victims handled by city cops greater than those in NCIS's jurisdiction. Besides, this might not have been his fault, exactly, but he was inextricably bound up in it – with his part in Rivkin's death and his own obsessive reaction to losing her, and now with her focusing her pent up rage at him, it fell to him to fix.

All he knew was that they couldn't go on like this, _he_ couldn't go on like this, not and work together, spend long days together as a team. And Ziva couldn't keep going on like this without hurting more and more. Tony had no clue if his actions now were a bad or good idea, or whether he was overstepping his bounds to take on something that should be the team leader's job. All he knew was that he needed to stop stalling and address the issue with her, and _now_, at least obliquely. The best he knew to do in the face of the vicious, tragic circumstances Ziva had lived though was to rely on his gut, along with his training and experience, as ancient as some of it seemed now. Unconsciously shifting the items he clutched to hold them tighter, he drew a breath, the moment feeling almost as surreal as things had after learning the Damocles was lost – and rapped on Ziva's door.

Moments went by. He didn't knock again, didn't leave, just ... waited. He knew both were enough.

Standing there, he noticed without noticing the fresh scent of recently cut wood, the apartment building nearly as new as Ziva's return to the District, its lighting subtle, minimalist and elegant – fitting for Ziva, he mused. He remembered then tried to ignore the fact that most of the others – or all of them? – had been here to her new place already, all but him; McGee for her computer and Abby, probably, just because Abby would have brought a plant or some food or both and even Palmer, if she had another piano to be tuned. Hell, Gibbs probably showed up with a bookcase or table or maybe even a boat ... but he'd had nothing to offer, so no excuse to come by. He'd thought about just stopping by one night after work, but was always stopped by wondering, even with her several eruptions at him at work, if she could still be honest enough to just kick him out if she didn't want him there.

But now he found himself at her door, in her hall, nearly midnight, unannounced, and if ever he might have been welcome he'd really made that unlikely now. He didn't think about how long he should wait. She'd know someone was there, would know it was him; his gut had brought him here and if he backed out now...

The door opened, slowly. He'd think later he might have waited even four or five minutes. Behind the door, Ziva stood, unmoving, looking uncertain, annoyed, troubled ... fragile. Not at all like work. Not at all like Ziva...

"Hey," he said softly. He waited, quietly, for her to make the first move.

"Tony..." she began slowly, eyebrows drawing down as she wondered at his unexpected appearance. "What do you want?"

"A few minutes," he shrugged.

"It is late..." she protested.

"I know. I'm sorry," He really was, but his gut hadn't been quite so insistent earlier or he could have gotten an earlier start. Still ... he continued softly, "just a few minutes, Ziva. Just ... to clear the air about a couple things. There's really no place or time at work."

She stood rooted to the spot she'd been since opening the door, her hand on the doorknob, feet bare, her eyes large and dark and looking at him, into him, as if trying to read his intention behind his words. Uncharacteristically, Tony remained as still as she did, returning her look with a soft gaze of his own, unthreatening and trustworthy, as he had learned to do with other broken souls. After many moments, Ziva seemed to come to herself again and stepped aside, opening the door wider. "Alright," she said in toneless acceptance.

He nodded and smiled, murmuring "thanks" before even starting to move. He took a few steps into her still-new apartment and closed the door behind him, trying not to look around as if he was assessing the place, but kept his eyes on her or in the area between them. He waited to see if she would speak first, wanting to avoid doing anything that might make her feel pressured or threatened or forced. He knew it didn't matter that they were partners, that they'd known each other for a few years now and had had each other's six on a daily basis nearly all that time. She'd been a captive and a victim, and that would mess with the strongest mind. He would not take anything at all for granted, not for this.

"What is it you want, Tony?" she asked again. She'd remained standing where she'd moved to open the door, and though she willed her voice to remain unemotional, made more difficult by her apparent exhaustion, he could see it: she'd tensed slightly, her arms around her as if she were chilly. Her eyes were no longer quite able to meet his. _Nothing like she's been at work at all..._

Tony tried to plunge ahead with the little speech he'd had to give before, to other victims, but Ziva's brave and broken stance before him, the effects of her captivity so clear, hit him nearly as hard as her unexpected resurrection in Somalia had. Suddenly words never exactly easy to begin with, but that had come for those other victims, seemed too glib and too easy. "Ziva..." he breathed, and when she barely moved, as if just waiting for him to say whatever he'd come to say, he felt as if he were adding to the abuse she'd suffered. "What you went through..." he began, "... no matter the training you've had or how strong you are – what happened to you was just about guaranteed to have some lasting effect..."

"How could you know what happened to me?" she interrupted, as for the first time that night her voice sharpened and her arms drew a little tighter around herself.

"I don't – not the details." With her response, Tony found his footing again and urged, evenly, "but when we showed up you were being held captive by a gang of terrorists. You had signs of physical injury, probably inflicted by them; you'd lost weight and were physically restrained. Even with only that much, what I said still goes. But," he paused a last moment to reconsider his next words, then went on, "the last time we'd seen you before seeing you again in that cell, you had just lost a ... lost Rivkin, and had gotten a whole new set of facts about Rivkin and your father and what was happening behind your back at Mossad. _You_ were still Mossad." He watched her carefully but saw that she remained tensely stoic. "Now you're back with us, and you are doing an amazing job of holding it together and working to build a future here. I hope it's with NCIS for a long, long time. But Ziva," he whispered, "what you went through ... you don't have to carry it all inside, alone, and if you haven't seen someone to help you through it..."

"Why do you think I have not?" Her words were again soft and flat as she stared at the floor. "The Director ordered it; why do you think I disobeyed?" She would not meet his gaze, and it represented more to him than any physical scars could.

"Ziva..." he whispered again. He watched as she stood rigid, giving away nothing more than her taut stance and downcast eyes would tell. "Because ... I know you. I knew you before all this ... and I know how insistent you were about not appearing weak or in need of some help.' He watched as she just took all in, wanting desperately to find a way to help her past this. "Some things are harder to just walk off than others."

She stood rooted, unmoving, for long moments, until, raising her chin and straightening, forcing her arms to her sides, she finally asked, stiffly, "is there something specific that I did or did not do since my return? Because as a probationary agent I..."

"Ziva," he repeated, watching her sadly.

Finally, with his continued silence, she focused on him to see the concern and care for her reflected in his eyes, and her control stuttered slightly. Frowning as she swallowed and took a deep breath, seeking focus, she straightened a little more, then inexplicably, seemed to deflate slightly as she repeated yet again, defeat in her voice, "What is it that you want, Tony?"

He wanted to say that he wanted to rewind the last year, so none of it would happen as it had; he wanted to say that he wanted the old Ziva back, but knew how wrong that would be if she were gone forever. He wanted to say that every day since Rivkin had appeared in a photo at her desk he'd wished he'd done things differently with her, and had been honest about how he felt before all of this happened – if only he knew exactly what it was he'd been feeling, then _or_ now. But his answer was simpler and just as honest. "I want you to be happy again," he began. "I want you to feel that you can be yourself, no matter what that means at the moment. I want you to feel comfortable letting down these new walls – and if you need them, even putting the old ones back. I want you to..." he dared, "to feel your emotions honestly – if you're mad at me, be mad at me; if you're mad at Saleem, be mad at him. But try to remember which of us just wants you to be happy ... and which of us was a terrorist bastard."

As he watched her for some sign of reaction, he suddenly wondered if might be opening wounds that meant that no matter her response, he shouldn't leave her alone, even if she asked him to. He mentally head-slapped himself for showing up in the middle of the night, when memories and nightmares could be the most insistent. The old Ziva would have been fine or if not, would ask him to stay, if she ever needed or wanted someone there. _This_ Ziva – one worlds different not only from the woman he knew before but even from the brittle, quick to anger Ziva he worked with now – who knew what his words might have done to make things worse for her, here in the middle of the night, alone.

He glanced away for a moment, then took a small step to the side to lay the small stack of materials he still held on the entryway table, by her mail. "Some information ... from a psychologist friend," he shrugged, still looking away. "From a clinic, and a couple survivor groups ... and some information you could read, on your own..."

He glanced up to see that she had again wrapped her arms around herself, but the tension had dissipated, and he had no idea how to read that. She still looked away, but he thought he saw the trace of a tear shimmering on her cheek. He frowned, no idea what to do or say next, when she spoke again. Her voice was so low he could barely hear her.

" ... you do not have a 'psychologist friend.'"

He hesitated; her tone barely gave anything away but he could have sworn she was trying to make a joke. He looked closer and she raised her eyes back to him, another tear escaping that she brushed away roughly, but she said again, "you do not have a psychologist friend."

"I _do_," he replied cautiously, eyebrows lifting in hope that the Ziva he knew from before was somehow reaching out to him. "And she's pretty smart, and still puts up with me. Are you impressed?" he baited gently as he showed her his trademark grin, hoping wildly that he was right in what he thought he saw.

"Ah, a 'she.' So she is a beautiful blonde, with sexy legs, yes?" Her tears began to flow more readily but it was as if Ziva was determined to ignore both her tears and the unsteady breathing that went with them, other than to swab first at one eye, then the other, as she fought the emotional torrent forcing its way though her, even striking a smirking attitude with her words for him.

Tony managed to maintain his grin, despite the alarming combination of Ziva's tears with her efforts to connect with him again, determined to follow her lead in this. Even with her tears, her teasing was still more familiar than she'd been since the Somalian cell where they'd sat knee to knee and wondered if they'd get out alive – more like it had been between them before Rivkin showed up, more than six months ago. "Yeah, she is, and she's brilliant too, but right now she's about ten and a half months pregnant and is the size of a barn, so telling her she's beautiful, she'd be likely to knock your head off." He added with a nod, "you'd like her."

In another sudden, unexpected turn, Ziva's expression fell slightly, to Tony's surprise, but he had only a moment to wonder about it. "And ... the father ... it is not your 'barn,' this pregnancy?"

"No," he answered immediately, in surprise – feeling oddly buoyed that the thought caused her momentary disappointment. "Oh, no; hell, no – no way; it would be like having a baby with my sister – if I had one."

Ziva's face warmed again with the news, still glittering with moisture, and she nodded, admitting, "then yes, I would like her." In the next moment, though, she sobered again, and she glanced over at the stack of materials Tony had brought with him. Biting her lip, her look now determined, Ziva tried to make her voice light as she stepped over to the table where they lay. "I ... know of this place," she tapped the top pamphlet with her finger, then looked up at him. "I recognize their design." Tony looked to see the logo of a rape crisis center in Montgomery County, then back to Ziva. Their eyes met for long moments, hers still wet as new tears slipped away, but she drew a shaky breath to say, "it is alright, Tony. It ... is what it is." Another tear slipped out, ignored, and she added, "it was good of you to bring these."

Tony felt as if he was holding his breath, surprised yet again with her response. Maybe his showing up here, alone, not so public and no audience to see, allowed her to open up – or maybe she was simply performing for him as she must have for the psychologist who cleared her for duty. "I've been worried about you, Ziva..." he admitted simply.

"I am fine," she said immediately, as she had with Gibbs and the others, too quickly and glibly, but this time as she did, another tear spilled to slip down her cheek. "Now ..." she spread the stack of pamphlets a little with her fingertips. "What else did your psychologist friend send?"

The movement caused the materials to slide, and a small, rounded package slipped from the stack and hit the floor with a light rattle. Quicker than Tony, Ziva knelt down to retrieve it, holding up, in the flat of her palm for them both to inspect, a purple and white plastic whistle, attached to a long purple and white stretchy cord, clearly made to be hung around someone's neck. Tony's thoughts flashed back twelve years or so, to the first time he'd seen one like it, and mentally kicked himself.

"A whistle?" Ziva asked softly, her brows drawing in question.

"Oh – yeah – sorry," he took it from her and stuffed it in his pocket, wishing he'd checked the materials first. It wasn't something he'd have brought her, but now, probably with his quick reaction to seeing it, he'd simply made her curious. _Way to go, DiNozzo_, he growled to himself.

"It was not supposed to be there?" Her eyes, suddenly too large, added to the effect of the emotional mix he'd seen from her so far, and dented his usually dependable ability to spin a deflecting story.

"It, ah ... well, it _was_, with the materials, but not something _you'd_ need..." he tried. Seeing her wait for more, he heard himself start to babble, cornered with it now, "it's a ... a safety whistle. Usually suggested for women, but not a bad idea for anyone, really. The idea is that if someone's alone, like at night, in parking garage or some isolated place, if they're attacked, and need help, they can blast away on it and get someone's attention." He watched her closely, praying she would never believe that she was any less capable than she had been before – or believe that he would ever question her abilities. "But I know you're not so much the whistle type, seeing how you could take out a whole parking garage full of attackers yourself. You'd probably rather do that than toot on some little whistle."

She stood unmoving for a moment, then looked down to blink away the wetness in her eyes, again drawing the back of her hand across her cheek. With a deep breath, she then looked back to him and raised her other hand, palm outstretched. "May I have it? she asked softly.

"The whistle? Yeah; sure..." He dug back into his pocket and pulled it out, dropping it in her hand. "I didn't really think it was your sort of thing," he apologized awkwardly. "It's not like you'd even need help; heck, if I were in a deserted parking garage I'd call _you_ for help."

She nodded. "It is not why I want it."

He shrugged, not getting it. "Then...?"

"Because it comes from the man who came to my rescue when I _did_ need it." She paused another moment, looking at the small plastic whistle, before looping its colorful cord around her neck. "It is a good reminder."

"If you whistled, I'd come," he said softly, as sincere as she'd ever heard him.

"I know you would, Tony," she looked back in his eyes, her own dark and troubled again. The connection between them was electric, as if they were seeing each other again, really seeing the other, for the first time. The moment built until they both suddenly spoke, in a rush, their words first identical.

"I'm sorry for..."

"... what I did – " Tony began.

"...what I put you through..." Ziva said over his words, but in hearing them, her eyes looked nearly as hurt and filled with impossibility as they'd been when he first saw her in that cell. "What _you_ did?" Ziva repeated softly, incredulous. "Tony ... why would you be sorry?"

He blinked, wondering that she could really ask him that. "For Michael ..." he shrugged, looking at her in question now. "The way it all turned out..."

She never dropped her long, searching look, still looking into his eyes and expression as if she had not seen him in a very long time. _Maybe she hadn't_, he started to think, _not while she was so busy hiding herself... _

But she seemed to find something there because there was the slightest shift in her expression, as if a question had been answered, when she began to speak. "I never knew ... I didn't _understand_ what Michael was doing, or why, or ... or how much of it my father knew. You were far ahead of everyone on that, Tony. You at least knew something was..." She paused, and for the slightest of moments her expression softened into a sad smile. "Hinky?" As his mouth quirked in recognition of the word they'd all borrowed from Abby, she went on, "You came on what could have been a suicide mission of your own to avenge my death..."

"To ... to end the killing," he interrupted, trying, not too convincingly, to make it seem less personal – and less obsessive – on his part.

"That was what you told Gibbs and the Director," her voice was soft, almost broken, but steady and insistent, and he saw that the spark that must have kept her alive through months of torture was keeping her moving her memory of that time as well. "But it was not what you told Saleem."

"Only McGee was there to hear any of that, and he was unconscious," Tony resisted. "So whatever I might have said..."

"Not unconscious," she said softly.

"And ... McGee told you?" DiNozzo wasn't quite sure what to think of that. Surprised, and not sure that he had managed to hide the genuine puzzlement about why it would have even come up between Ziva and McGee, given how things had been with all of them now, he backpedaled, "he probably just imagined that; you know, he got an armful of drugs too, I think..."

"...Tony," she tried.

"... and between the drugs and getting knocked out by a rifle butt in the middle of a sandstorm..."

"Tony."

He stilled immediately, but couldn't find it in himself to look back up at her in the eye just then, knowing this just wasn't the time to muddy things with how he felt about her, not so soon, but just not sure he could hide it all if they stayed on this topic. With a quick mental shake he drew a breath and looked back to see her deep brown eyes, still so soft and dark, just as they had been in that hot, sticky cell, filled with pain and question and wonder and impossibility all over again as she asked him again, "why were you there?"

There, in Somalia, drugs and sleep deprivation and the surrealism of the moment allowed for his glib greeting, his pressing on in his blind faith in Gibbs and the plan. But here – in the States, in Washington, in the manufactured comfort of central heating and new furniture and nearly normal surroundings – he had no hollow words for her. He couldn't lie; he couldn't bluster away what she knew, what had driven him like a madness. No matter the noble sentiment or heroic words about preventing the worst, his goal, down deep, had been simple: to kill her killer. "I didn't know what else to do," he said finally. "After all the time that you had been here, in Washington ... after things that went wrong for us all ... for Roy and Jeanne and Michael, and neither of us knowing what to make of any of that. For all that time ... and I had never stopped to think that I might ever lose you." He swallowed, feeling awkward; he shifted his weight to his other foot and blustered slightly, "kinda dumb, really; after all, we don't exactly have desk jobs and with everyone around here who's died, we really ought to know that..."

He wasn't looking at her as he rambled, so the gentle weight of her hand on his arm surprised him. "Tony," she said again, softly. When he looked back to her, he saw her brow drawn, her expression troubled, a mix of concern, regret, remorse, and God knew what else there. He knew in that moment his usually nimble brain had failed to craft him an escape from the truth, and that Ziva had just heard from him a reiteration of the far simpler "can't live without ya" he'd offered her months ago. He waited, uncertain what his confession would bring. Given her recent, recurrent anger with him, her clearly derailed sense of self, and the surprising near-normalcy from her amid the wildly un-Ziva-like tears, he wondered fleetingly if he'd done more harm than good.

She finally dropped her eyes from his, unmoving for many moments, silent now. The silence, always one of the greatest torture methods that could be used on a DiNozzo, finally moved him to try, "hey..."

She looked up immediately, her brow clear again, and – did he just imagine it? – the faintest, earliest gleam of new lightness in her eyes. "It is late, and I am making you stand in the hall." She looked away for a moment, the tension gone from her frame and a tired but more settled look came back in her eyes. "Come into the kitchen with me and I will make us some tea – or hot chocolate?"

He dared to smile a little at her words, allowing him to feel some of the hope that Catherine had promised him. He needed to leave her a out, though ... "I didn't exactly come over on an invitation," he reminded her. "Are you sure you want company this late?"

She nodded, admitting, "sometimes ... the nights are the most difficult. I have seen many late night movies since my return," she added wryly, aware of what the image – and her movie watching – might mean for him. "If it not too late for you, I would like to have someone here – to have _you_ here," she admitted, "to talk ... or even to watch a movie."

"Okay, then," he nodded, vaguely wondering that, even if they were exhausted tomorrow, this step forward might be about the best thing the team – or they – might have happen in a long while.

Ziva started to walk toward the kitchen, Tony behind her, when she turned, one last thought bothering her. "And ... I know that I have been especially intolerant of you since I got back, and have been angry at you with little provocation." She shook her head. "I cannot say why I have acted that way; I have come home at the end of the day sometimes and cannot understand why I..."

"It's okay," he found himself smiling away the most hurtful part of the past weeks, given what had happened in the past few minutes. "You were probably just making up for lost time."

"But I don't know why I would strike out at you..."

"I do," his grin quirked at her. "I know how to take a punch, and I probably just pestered you when I knew you needed to hit something." He saw her hesitate as she considered it, and added, "sounds like me, doesn't it? Just bugging you so you can get it off your chest."

She looked back at him, considering, and after a moment a soft smile played along her lips. "Yes, I suppose so. Just as it sounds like you to come to Somalia, not to get revenge, but to end the killing." She drew a breath as her brows dipped again, and she confessed, "I am not myself, Tony, no one knows that better than you do. I am ... still in that cell, much of the time, still their captive." Her eyes turned back up to him with her admission. "I know it cannot be pleasant to be a part of that."

He shrugged, his answer immediate and sure. "Not so bad. And anytime you're back there – I'll come back to get you. Beats revenge," he offered.

The look in his eyes – steady, sure – _caring_ – let her trust that he meant every word. "I believe you will," she murmured and stepped closer, a hair's breath from his chest. "Thank you."

His arms went around her almost without thought; it was after she relaxed further into his gentle hold that it occurred to him she might find a man's embrace difficult. _At least that's settled_, he relaxed as well as he let his arms bring her just a tiny bit closer. They stood like that, quietly, for long moments, until he finally let himself nuzzle her hairline gently. "Do you want me to make you that hot chocolate?" As she looked up to him, an exhausted look of gratitude still there, he went on, "because you Israelis are a desert people, and after all, what can a desert people know about hot chocolate, anyway?"

"Would you like me to _show_ you, Tony?"

"I challenge you to show me, Ziva," he grinned his oldest, most comfortably irritating, smuggest grin.

Without thought, as her eyes suddenly welled up again, Ziva stood on tiptoe; a hand to his cheek, she suddenly kissed her partner, sweetly, holding it a moment or two, before breaking it and admitting. "I missed you, Tony. In Israel ... in Somalia ... _here,_ I missed you and have missed you. Here, it has been my fault for not letting myself remember ..." She shook it off and looked away for a moment before looking back up at him. "I will not forget again."

This time _he_ had to fight a sudden prickling in his eyes. "I won't either," he vowed. "I'll always be here for you, Ziva."

She nodded, swallowed the emotions pressing yet again to take her over, and this time got the better of them. "Then I had better get started on that hot chocolate..."

He let her slip from his arms with a winning smile and saw she was getting stronger. He let himself have just a moment to get his bearings, take stock – and swear to himself he would do everything right with her, for her, now that it seemed he had this second – or third, or fourth – chance with her. "I'll bet you'll need my help," he followed behind her, back to his teasing.

_So what the hell will tomorrow bring? _he found himself wondering._ Will we just pick up from here and finally start moving forward – with __**every**__thing? Are we even going to have to worry about Rule 12 here now, too? _

_If we do, we need to worry about Gibbs. _The thought kept him stopped in his tracks for another moment, before the next one kicked him back to moving again. _That's nothing – if __**any**__thing's starting here, __**me**__, with Ziva David – __**I**__ need to worry about the Director of the whole damn Mossad!_

DiNozzo came into the kitchen and watched Ziva pull out two mugs, milk and a saucepan, giving him another soft smile, lighting her features in a way he hadn't seen since long before Michael Rivkin came and threw them all out of whack . _Nah, on second thought ..._ he decided, returning her look with a confident smile as he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the back of a nearby chair. _Gibbs is gonna be way scarier..._

_XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx_


End file.
